Aftershocks
by Angelinhel
Summary: A combination of two Iron Chefs. Jane deals with the aftershocks of The Tom Incident. Please read all 5 parts before reviewing.
1. Part 1

**Aftershocks**

Jane woke slowly. The insistent drumming she heard made her think the Spiral were practicing again, but the shaft of sunlight peeking around the curtain told her there was no way they would be awake, much less able to function. She concluded that the drumming was in fact, a pounding headache. The addition of a fuzzy metallic taste in her mouth added to the evidence the problem was her and not the result of a practice gone late, which roused the hazy memories of the previous night. Bit by bit, images swam into coherent order. 

_The doorbell rang. Jane knew who was on the other side and glared at the paint chipped interior of the front door. ___

_"Jane?" Daria called. "Jane, please open the door. We have to talk about this." ___

_There's nothing to talk about you…you backstabber! You were my friend, my best friend! My only friend. How could you, Daria? How could you? Words she longed to scream rang in her head, but Jane said nothing.___

_"Jane, I'm sorry!" Daria's usual monotone actually sounded…pleading. "Please!" ___

_Jane glared harder, wishing Daria could feel the white-hot anger bore through the door. Daria's last plea ended on an almost whimper, which Jane hated to admit had found a chink in the armor of betrayal she'd wrapped round herself. She opened the door._

Jane remembered a distraught and confused Daria, trying to explain how she had thought they were going to talk about her, Jane, of all things, when she got in that disaster that passed for Tom's car. Daria even admitted that while the first was Tom's idea, she had gone back for seconds purely of her own desire. Perhaps it was the raw honesty that pulled at her, the fact that Daria hid nothing. And felt such self-loathing at the act. Jane had to admit that even her own rage and betrayal might not compare to the misery and blame Daria was heaping on herself.

_"This situation calls for some reinforcements." Jane got up from her bed and disappeared down the hallway, much to Daria's consternation. She returned quickly with a three-quarters full bottle of cheap vodka. ___

_Daria eyed it. "I thought you were ordering pizza." ___

_Jane smirked. "I think we need something stronger this time." ___

_Jane felt her hesitation, but Daria relented and took a swig, coughing as it burned a path down her throat. Laughing at her discomfort, Jane took a hefty swallow of her own. __  
_

Recalling the source of the current pounding, Jane had to wonder if Daria's encounter with Tom was the first crack in the armor that allowed her to start to act less inhibited. If she hadn't kissed Tom, would she ever have given in to Jane's insistence she loosen up and take a drink? Was that it? Or was it the weight of guilt she carried that forced her to submit to Jane's command, against her better judgment? Either way, she'd hardly put up a fight.

Jane tested the movement of her arms, gingerly at first, afraid to anger the drummers in her head further. When there was no increase in tempo or intensity, she attempted her lower limbs. Her headache remained low and throbbing, but was joined by a new sensation. She was sticky. 

_They cried and talked in high-pitched screechy wails of feminine anger as they progressed through a recap of The Incident In The Car and the remains of the vodka. When it was over and they were talked out and thoroughly drunk, Jane grabbed Daria in a furious hug._

It was then Jane realized Daria was still next to her. She cautiously turned her head. The sunlight that had managed to sneak around the window shade had found itself tangled in Daria's auburn hair, glinting off the soft strands. Jane wanted to imagine Daria looked peaceful laying there in the early morning light, but it was impossible.

_Daria's eyes widened in shock, Jane could see her reflection in the mirror. Jane imagined she would have looked just as surprised if she had only hugged her. ___

_However, she figured it was the fact that she'd just stabbed Daria between the ribs with the steak knife she'd been using to add texture to her latest project that had her looking so surprised. ___

_"Jane?" Daria's voice sounded childlike in its confusion. ___

_Jane let her go, pulling the knife out as Daria fell back on the bed. There were a million things Jane wanted to scream and howl and whisper, but she was silent as she plunged the knife down again and again. __  
_

In the gentle quiet of the early morning Jane lay, remembering the events of the night before, wondering how she felt now that rage and alcohol no longer fueled her. Lying in sticky, blood-soaked sheets, Jane decided she felt... satisfied.


	2. Part 2

Jane blinked. She wondered how long she'd been standing there, lost in thought, and judging by the red stain spreading over the bedsheet, probably longer than was normal. Still, she watched the last few drops of bright red drip off the point of the rusty steak knife onto the bed.

Sighing, she turned back to the painting she'd been working on. She flicked a few more drops of the oil paint and thinner mixture onto the canvas, ignoring the can she'd spilled and thus ruined her bedsheets. She'd gotten the effect she'd wanted for the painting and at the moment, that was all she cared about.

Her little revenge fantasy was merely a sidenote, the result of a sleepless night and the cathartic soul-purging painting always brought her. The painting itself was an angry mess of dark blotches, hard lines and now the blood-like spatter pattern of the red mixture.

As usual when she painted angry, Jane had gotten a good deal of it on herself. Deeming the painting finished, she glanced down at the red dripping down her arms. Transfixed, she added a few more drops, watching the crimson rivulets trace rivers through already existing semi-dried paths. There was something soothing about watching the red flow from her arms down her fingertips and drip onto the stained carpet.

She pressed the knife to her skin.

Daria and Tom stood outside the Lane home, neverously looking at everything but each other.

"Maybe we-" Tom started but Daria cut him off.

"We already decided the three of us need to talk this out." Daria was determined, and refused to let Tom talk her out of this. After all, he'd talked her into this mess in the first place.

Trent answered the door. "Janey's out for a run." 

Daria hated the accusatory look in his eyes. Stoically, she refused to budge. "I want to fix this, Trent. I was wrong. _We_ were wrong. And we know she's here."

With a sigh Trent stepped back and let them in. Slowly, Daria and Tom went up to Jane's room. Daria knocked softly, and pushed the door open.

"Jane we- Oh God."


	3. Part 3

Jane pondered the canvas on her easel. Had she used _too much_ red? Berating herself for letting her mind wander too far, she took a step back to judge her canvas. In any case, suicide only worked as revenge if you were alive to enjoy people's reactions. And since she didn't know how to get around the logistics of _that _problem... Her bedroom door creaked and she turned to see Trent leaning in the doorway. 

"Hey, Janey, I-" Trent stopped mid sentence, his face paling.

Jane laughed. "Oh, come on, Trent. It's not the first time I've spilled paint."

"Janey..." It came out as a sort of strangled whisper.

"Trent, what's wrong?" Jane took a step towards him, confused. Trent backed away, into the hallway. Jane's voice jumped up in pitch. "Trent, what's wrong!"

Trent just shook his head, still staring at something behind Jane. Not understanding, Jane turned.

And screamed.


	4. Part 4

Jane woke to total darkness. She had been dreaming again. There was a heaviness in her limbs that paled in comparison to that in her heart. She hurt, down to her soul. There was also an odd fuzziness in her head, like a fog had crept in while she was sleeping and obscured everything until she didn't know what was who anymore. She couldn't remember if she had drunk herself into that state, or if she'd come across something of Max's and desperately (stupidly) hoped it would ease her pain for a while. In fact, she couldn't remember much of anything at all.

What she _did _remember, the one thing nothing that had been forced into her body could erase, was the fact her friendship with Daria, something she had cherished and loved and depended on, was gone forever. Lost in a sea of betrayal that no beacon could ever lead back home.

Crushed by the weight of despair and confusion and the vast expanse of lonely black darkness, she found her arms and legs unwilling to move. It didn't matter, since moving even a fraction might cause her to shatter into a million heartbroken pieces, and so Jane stared into the dark and let the tears fall.


	5. Part 5

_Buzz. Click. Click. Thunk. Creak._

Trent always felt the entry process had it's own little tune. Being a musician (or what was left of one) he found he both appreciated and dreaded the song that always began his visits.

The routine went as always, things were removed, things were inspected, he was given a nod and the song played one more time.

In an empty white room, save for the steel table bolted to the floor with the steel chairs similarly bolted next to it, he sat in his usual place across from Jane. No one but he ever came to see her, and so they were alone, except for the large men in white standing silently next to the heavy steel door, and their twins, standing on the other side. But they didn't count.

"Hey, Trent." Jane's words were slow and slurred.

"Hey, Janey. I brought you something." Trent placed the items on the table, catching the slight shift of the guards, even though he had been inspected and allowed to bring them. Every week. For the last year.

Jane clumsily reached out for the box and shook its contents out onto the table. Pulling the sheet of paper closer she awkwardly gripped the large crayon and began a series of large loopy red circles. Jane only ever drew in red.

Trent watched in silence. They hadn't ever talked much before and he saw no reason to start then. Jane seemed happy enough to draw her loose swirls across the page for an hour once a week without them saying anything. Every now and then Trent wondered if Jane missed being able to create real art, but since the cocktail of sedatives and anti-psychotics left her with not only the coordination of a five-year-old, but also a similar mental state, he doubted Jane cared much. About anything.

When the hour was almost up and Jane had filled the page with a cacophony of bright red loops and swirls, she pushed the paper towards Trent with a vacant smile. He took it, knowing it would join the others he placed every week in the manila folder he had labeled 'Unfit to Stand Trial'.

He was about to get up when Jane spoke, "I'm not angry with Daria anymore."

Trent fought to keep his expression neutral. "That's good, Janey."

The guards were indicating his time was up, so he stood and walked to the door. Jane continued to watch him, only the barest glimmer of life left in her glassy gaze. "You should bring her with you when you come."

Trent paused, unable to look at her. "Maybe next time, Janey. Maybe next time."


End file.
